


By His Side (Always)

by katikat



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 13:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13614471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katikat/pseuds/katikat
Summary: So many changes in their lives. Mac’s still an asset, Jack’s still his bodyguard. Everything else’s different. Jack’s POV. (Unbeta'd)





	By His Side (Always)

It’s those damn birds that wake him up,  _again_ , screeching their little hearts out right outside his window, those sick bastards. He would throw a shoe at them,  _again_ , but he still hasn’t found the last one yet.

With a groan, Jack rolls onto his side and peers at the alarm clock blearily. 6.37 am.  _Jesus tap-dancing Christ_ , he’s too old for this shit.

He could try falling asleep again but it wouldn’t do, he knows, he’s too cranky now. And so, with a resigned sigh, he crawls out of bed and stretches carefully, enjoying the cracks and pops in his joints and the ache in his muscles. Then he scratches his belly and gives his near future a deep thought: shower or coffee? And since they’ve just had yet another hot summer night and he feels as sticky as a well roasted marshmallow, he decides that shower it is. And heads for the adjoining bathroom.

Showered and brushed - shaving’s reserved for special occasions these days - Jack dresses in clean clothes - he really needs to do laundry soon - shoving a gun into his side holster - just a precaution - and heads for the kitchen to make coffee.

The open-space kitchen slash living room’s already full of bright sunlight when he steps out of the short hallway leading up to the bedrooms in the “west wing” as they like to call the left side of their cabin. The “east wing”, the right side of their home, is pretty much a mirror image in design, only there’s just one big room there instead of two smaller ones.

And by said room’s door, there in the shadowy recess of the opposite hallway, there’s a small red light blinking, signaling a transmission in progress. It makes Jack pause and lift an eyebrow. He wonders how long that’s been going on. He should check it out but first,  _coffee_!

He starts the state of the art coffeemaker going - he insisted on that one; before, he used to drink any sludge available, as long as there was caffeine in it, but these days, he likes to actually enjoy his coffee, thank you very much! - and then he heads for the living room with its comfy furniture, a big stone fireplace - and an even bigger TV! Another thing he insisted on.

While the coffeemaker’s doing its thing, burbling and hissing quietly on the counter, Jack switches the TV on and several smaller screens pop up on the big one: surveillance in black and white, cameras set at various angles all around the cabin and the surrounding woods; one’s even aimed down at the lake. All seems to be working right, all looks clear. Later on, he’ll have to go through the night feeds in greater detail, just to be sure, but not before  _coffee_.

The coffeemaker beeps cheerily and Jack walks around the counter to pour himself a mug.  _Oh yes_ , he thinks as he closes his eyes in pure bliss, inhaling the strong aroma of a really good coffee, living the good life. Then he pours another cup, grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge and heads for the “east wing” and for their very own “war room” there.

He has to fumble with the mugs and the bottle for a bit to press his right hand to the scanner by the door, but finally the door clicks softly and then unseals itself with a little hiss of pressurized air. He nudges the door with his hip.

Walking in, Jack has to pause and let his eyes adjust; the room’s dark - there’re no windows in here and the lights are off - and he would hate to trip, considering the floor is sunken a good three feet below the main level. It’s all done as a precaution, for protection, just like everything else in the cabin. From what Jack understands, a missile could hit their home and this room would survive, maybe a little shaken in its proverbial boots but otherwise intact.

There’s a wall of screens opposite the door, glowing with images of a… desert, it seems. Someone with a camera - probably clipped to his or her vest - is running, hiding, then running again, headed for a ramshackle building, barely discernible in the gathering twilight. If it’s a live feed, it must be somewhere in… Asia? Probably, considering the time difference. Then the camera catches a glimpse of another figure, running along - a man in a desert camo.  _Ah_ , Jack thinks, _one of_ those  _missions…_

Finally able to see again, he walks down the steps and heads for the ergonomic chair, made of real leather so buttery soft it makes one want to weep, facing the screens. “Here,” he whispers, handing over one of the mugs.

Mac looks up with a grateful smile and accepts it, wrapping his right hand tightly around the handle. “Thanks,” he whispers back, inhaling deeply; yeah, even Mac learned to appreciate good coffee.

Soft voices are rasping out of the speakers, issuing and accepting orders. Jack sets the bottle of water down on the small table by the chair, then he taps at his ear and points at the screen in a “Can they hear us?” gesture.

Mac takes a little sip of his coffee - it’s still rather hot - and setting the cup down on the table next to the water bottle, he switches something off on the console that seems a part of the chair. “Now they can’t. We have a moment before they need me again,” he says.

“What’s going on?” Jack asks, watching the men, US soldiers from the look of it, sneak closer to the building. There’re two very quiet puffs and the lookout by the door drops dead, then the one at the corner of the house.

Mac points at the screens with his right hand, his left one cradled in his lap. “ _That’s_ a terrorist hideout,” he informs Jack simply. “Based on our intel, these people might’ve gotten their hands on a live nuke. The guys had to get in right away to grab it, they couldn’t wait for an expert to arrive and accompany them so…”

“They called you,” Jack finishes for him.

“Yeah,” Mac says. “I got the call at two in the morning, while they were already on the plane. We’ve been going through the basics ever since. Luckily, one of them went through an EOD training so they won’t be going in completely blind.”

Mac reaches out for his mug to take another sip - and in the glow of the screens Jack catches the little twist of Mac’s lip, the tightness in his face as he sets the mug down again, the tremble in his left leg as he tries to find a more comfortable position.

“How’s the pain?” Jack asks, aiming straight for the heart of the matter. 

Now Mac grimaces openly but he also answers truthfully; he’s learned long ago not to lie to Jack about these things, he learned it the very hard way. “Bad,” he admits, sighing. “I haven’t had the time to take my meds yet.”

“Alright. Do you want them now or once this is over?” Jack points at the screens with his chin.

“After,” Mac replies immediately. “They need to get out of there within the next hour or so or they’re all dead anyway, bomb or not. Besides, I need my head clear for this. It  _is_ a live nuke we’re talking about here.”

Jack nods. “Fine. I’ll make breakfast and have your meds waiting for you in an hour.”

Mac grimaces again. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Egg-white omlets it is, then. With sausages and pepper. And hash browns,” Jack adds, enjoying the look of horror on Mac’s face; yup, he’s in for a lecture about cholesterol over breakfast. Honestly, he can’t wait.

“9-1-1, you there?” a voice crackles out of the speakers.

Mac flips the switch on his console back on. “Yes. What’s your status?”

“Two guards down, two to go. Geiger Counter quiet.”

Smiling, Mac replies, “That’s good, team leader. We’ll have you on your way back, safe and sound, in no time.”

Jack stands there a moment longer, watching the men on the screens take out two more bad guys and then enter the building. That used to be him, during his Delta Force days, then later on working for the CIA and in Afghanistan, spying for the Phoenix Foundation, and a part of him misses it, the action and the thrill. But another part, a  _much bigger_ part, is glad to be where he is right now.

He pats Mac on the shoulder and heads out, mug in hand, to let the kid focus on his job.

Jack takes his coffee out, down to the lake, and walks along the pebbled shore for a while. He has his phone on him, should Mac need anything, but Jack would be of no help to him right now. Assisting people in the field, that’s Mac’s job; under the code name 9-1-1 he seems to have made a name for himself over the last few years. But he also made new enemies. And it’s Jack’s job to make sure that nobody gets to him, just like always. Only these days, they don’t run around the world anymore, no. The world needs to come to them.

His phone rings and Jack pulls it out of his pocket with a smile. A special ringtone for a special person. “Hey, Matty. What are you doing up so early?” He stares across the lake, sipping his coffee and breathing in the fresh air with relish.

“Some of us are actually working, Dalton,” she snaps back playfully. “But why are  _you_ up at this hour? You’ve never been a morning person. I would’ve loved to wake you up and make you miserable.”

“You would!” Jack replies, chuckling. “It’s those damn birds, Matty. I swear, one of these days I’ll just shoot them all and make myself a roast!”

She laughs too. Then she asks, “How’s our boy wonder?” Her tone’s light but there’s genuine concern for Mac there. She’s always worried but much more so ever since the explosion that almost killed Mac, scarring him both physically and mentally for life.

“Working at the moment,” he says simply, not going into details. This might be a secure line but even those have ears these days.

“But how is he?” Matty asks again. She’s not asking about his job for the army and the various alphabet soup agencies. She’s asking about Mac as a person.

Jack sighs, still staring out across the lake. “Not getting any better, physically.”

“We knew that, Jack,” she says softly. “The doctors did tell us that this was as good as it would ever get.”

Pausing for a moment, Jack says, “I know. It’s just  _killing_ me, seeing him like this. I would switch places with him in a heartbeat if I could but I can’t and-and sometimes, sometimes that makes me so mad I want to punch something.” He takes a harsh breath and lets it out. “But I learned to be grateful that he’s still alive. Small miracles and all that.”

“Yeah,” Matty responds. “You said physically. How about the other stuff?”

Jack takes a gulp of his coffee, now only lukewarm. “His nightmares are almost gone. His PTSD’s getting better, too, slowly. The peace and quiet around here helps. He’s still not ready for big crowds, though. Not after–”

Not after the bomb that he couldn’t disarm and that almost killed him - and that  _did_ kill five people down in Miami. The Ghost’s present and his revenge in one. The madman finally found a bomb that Mac couldn’t defuse. It was almost the same scenario as in Mac’s house all those years before - two bombs, connected through a wireless receiver -  _almost_ but for two slight modifications: a motion sensor and, most importantly, a timer ticking down fast. 

_Disarm this one and the other one, hidden somewhere else, will blow up. Let this one explode and the other one will deactivate on its own. Control the number of casualties or leave it to fate. Choose, MacGyver, choose…_

Mac made a judgment call. He let the one he found go. He let the timer run out while they tried to evacuate as many people as possible from the bus terminal where it was found. Still, five people didn’t make it and Mac, too, got caught in the blast. The other bomb, they found it in a hospital later on. It would’ve killed many, many more people if it had exploded. Still, Mac never forgave himself.

But they never talk about this, at least not with the others, about The Aftermath. About the weeks Jack spent in the hospital, at Mac’s bedside, trying to keep his best friend alive through sheer force of will. It was a dark time, between the explosion and Matty’s new job offer. Because when it became clear that Mac would never be able to go back in the field, there came the question,  _now what?_

Jack turns to look at their log cabin. It was built with the help of the Phoenix Foundation, the men and women who usually maintained safe houses - which this turned out to be for Mac. A sanctuary, a workplace, a  _new home_. Jack and Bozer helped with the rough jobs while Riley and Cage outfitted the house with the best tech and best security measures, their little family banding together to help one of their own.

And then they moved in and Mac became an asset of a different kind, always there, always knowing what to do, just a phone call away, but safe, hidden in the middle of nowhere and with Jack guarding him both from his enemies and his inner demons alike.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear. He’s been quiet for a while but Matty’s waiting him out, she understands. She knows when to push and when not. And he’s never loved the woman more than in this moment.

“He would like to see you guys in person again,” Jack says, opening his eyes and looking up at the blue, blue sky. “He misses you. And so do I.”

“And we miss you, too,” Matty replies softly. “The team’s on a mission right now but once they’re back, we would love to come for a visit.”

“Speaking of which, how are they doing?” he asks, smiling a little.

There’s a smile in Matty’s voice, too, when she replies, “They’re doing great, Jack. Cage, Riley and Bozer have become one of our best teams.”

“Not as good as me and Mac, though, right?” Jack protest, mock affronted.

“No, Jack. No one’s better than you two, I promise,” she says kindly and it makes Jack’s chest feel warm.

Then he sees the cabin door open and Mac steps out onto the back porch. Leaning heavily on his cane, he walks up to the railing and waves down at Jack, just a little with his weak left hand before he curls it around his midriff again. In the bright morning sun the scars covering the whole left side of his body seem more visible than ever and Jack’s heart aches for his friend again.

But at the same time, seeing Mac there, alive and actually  _smiling_ down at him, makes him  _happy_. Mac’s here and he’s safe, despite everything, which is much better than the alternative. Jack lifts his mug in acknowledgment - his coffee’s now gone cold - and starts heading up the slope, back towards the cabin again.

“I gotta go, Matty,” he says into the phone. “His Highness left the audience room and will be expecting breakfast now.”

She laughs a little. “Tell Mac I said hi.” But then she sobers a little and asks him the same question she asks every time. “Do you regret it?”

Jack doesn’t need to ask what.  _Do you regret leaving your job? Do you regret moving out here where there’s nothing but trees and ducks? Do you regret giving up your whole life to guard this brilliant broken nerd whom you couldn’t love more if he were your own flesh and blood?_

And his answer is the same as always. “No.”

Then he hangs up, and putting his phone away, he runs up the slope, chiding Mac before he even reaches him, “You said I had  _an hour_!”

Mac, who’s standing there, waiting for him, shrugs. “It was easier than I expected. When they said ‘live nuke’ I thought it would be something actually complicated. Turns out it wasn’t. But do you really want to hear about that?”

Jack walks across the porch and holds the door open for Mac, who hobbles inside, his cane  _tap-tap-tapping_  against the hardwood. “Do I want to hear about a nuke on the other side of the world? Hm, let me think. Did it go kaboom? No? That’s enough for me.

“Oh, by the way, Matty says hi,” Jack adds as he passes Mac on his way to the kitchen. 

Grimacing a little, Mac sits down on one of the stools at the counter. “Did you talk about me?” he asks, a little annoyed.

Unruffled, Jack replies, pouring Mac a glass of apple juice, “Always.”

Mac glares at him but then his frown turns into a grateful little smile when Jack sets the glass down in front of him together with several pills of various shapes and colors.

“So, breakfast, then!” Jack says, rubbing his hands. It’s not a question. Mac’s appetite hasn’t been what it used to be since the incident and if it were left up to him, he would exist on dry toast only.

Mac swallows a pill and nods, replying as expected, “A toast will do.”

Jack laughs. “Think again, buddy.”

Smiling, Mac suggests a compromise. “And… blueberry jam?”

“No food that turns any part of your body blue can be good for you!” Jack states, shaking his head, mock disturbed.

“And all that fat clogging  _your_ arteries is?” Mac asks with raised eyebrows.

Jack points a finger at him. “But at least I can’t  _see_ that!”

“No, but you’ll definitely feel it very soon,” Mac retorts. “At the very least once you have to buy new pants because your old ones popped at the seams.”

Narrowing his eyes, Jack leans against the counter threateningly. “Are you calling me fat, kid?”

Unafraid, Mac points out, “I think your new wardrobe speaks for itself.”

“Says the noodle with the skinny ass!” Jack snaps back.

They keep it up, glaring at each other, a second or two longer. And then they burst out laughing and Jack reaches out across the counter to ruffle Mac’s hair fondly. Jesus, he loves the kid. And whatever lies ahead, Jack’s exactly where he wants to be, by Mac’s side.


End file.
